Awkward Awkward Awkward

This comes from a small square house,
Set in green rolling countryside.
Not quite alone, not quite home.
For I am from a conurbation 
Way "up-country",
I am very Midland in many of my ways.

How do other of the awkward do?
This is an entertaining question.
In their hunt to survive
How do they fair? 
In the relentless, jostle, jumble jungle. 
It’s a headlong dash, 
Toward forever and away from fallibility. 
Being forevermore late,
Mostly latent or deemed missing.
How can the pained cope
When their pain is so draining?   

With everyone else is speaking 
Others words serve only drown us out.
Our short winds seem to fall silently, 
Settling over the rest of us 
Gathered, unnoticed in the thin air.

Against the dark of the night 
Many are knelt, praying in pews   
There is no where else 
To genuflect
To press their point,
No button of hope for those 
Anguish soaked souls.   
Still the prayers rise to the rafters
And the penitents line up close to each other,
With their praise and their debts.

How the awkward struggle
In the dreary haze of living.
Who is there, 
Who is here to heal their bruises,
To meet their needs?      

No one gets given sight of
That virtual Cosmic benchmark 
With which to align, better to compare.
They have no vestibule, nor datum to measure 
No lever or anchor against which to rest.

These who constitute the awkward,
Walk everywhere on sods of existence.
Eventually these sods seep back to the soil
To disappear with no history.

©2020 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved.

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Red – Yellow – Black

This poem is a repose to the death of  Mr George Floyd in Mineapolis MN. So again tonight the blackness of smoke is rising to the heavens all across America. And Heaven knows the reasons. The red is flaring, it is updated and hot. Nowhere is safer than the land of the brave and the home of the free. The crackle of flame illuminates my point. Yellow is the conflagration, the heat is being drawn. Are the people being treated like they are naturally targetable? Is it inevitable, all this black death? We saw it in horror, we didn’t believe our eyes. A person being stifled, and no doubt not for the first time or encounter. And the fire and the mayhem are a self inflicted wound, a man is unjustifiably killed openly and on the street. Everyone is suffering on the inside. This is an ache for justice. Let the scales fall from our eyes. Everyone is precious, everyone one has a life to give, everyone has a right to live. Offer an open hand to lift up your brothers and sisters. Surely it is better to be blind then to judge another by the sight of their skin? There is wrong, there are wrongs to be corrected. There are people and there are streets, there is much yet to do. The Oxygen of forgiveness and equality of truth is the simple soul solution and the way of life is love. Each in self examination needs to help bring about all that is true. Let’s replace this red, yellow and black, with a red white and blue. C G T Devon, England.


Universal truths and certainty,
There is always a canon, a law.
And ever
Separate are the Holy,
That is their virtue.
But the cosmic circumstance,
The Universal plan?
The wilderness and the voices?
All in line with their books.
There is an arch and a Bishop
A world of believers,
And condemned unbelievers.
The science and the spirit,
The Galactic and the Quanta.
The village and the crowd,
The pocket in the shroud.
Kindness is King
Love and understanding.
Everything else is imperfect.

Written in response to the word "Imperfect" on #introtopoetry

©2019 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved.